


Boromir's Gift

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Interspecies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Frodo had come back when Boromir begged for forgiveness? Written for Trianne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boromir's Gift

Boromir’s head ached with dull rage as he clutched the  
bundle of wood to his chest. The halfling dared to scorn  
him – he, the next steward of Gondor – as if his plan for  
the Ring held more worth than the absurdity of sending a  
halfling into Mordor. He dug his fingers into the  
firewood, barely suppressing an urge to grab the hobbit’s  
slender shoulders and shake until scorn was replaced by  
terror. Instead, he flung down the firewood, taking  
satisfaction when Frodo flinched.

“Lend me the Ring!” He held out his trembling hand.

“No, No!” Frodo stepped backwards, and Boromir laughed,  
confident that soon the halfling would trip over those  
ridiculous feet and be completely at his mercy, out of  
calling range. Even Aragorn’s sharp ears would not save  
him.

He broke into a delicious sweat as his groin heated and  
swelled.

***

Frodo had blinked out of sight before Boromir’s eyes, just  
like the tales Faramir had always spun. The madness passed,  
and Boromir shouted for him to come back – the woods were  
treacherous and he could not be responsible for breaking  
the fellowship. Now he was alone and empty. A deep chill  
seeped through him, shriveling him inside, and the heat  
that had spread through his groin was now distant and  
cruel, like the mocking laughter of the Enemy. The memory  
of attacking Frodo had to be a distortion, as Boromir would  
never have tried to hurt one he had sworn to protect. Was  
he not a noble Captain of Gondor? Was his word not that of  
honor? Even aside of from his vow to protect the  
Ringbearer, was Frodo not a dear friend?

Boromir remembered clearly a night not too long ago when  
drizzle had made for a miserable campfire on the shore of  
the Anduin. Boromir was weary, nearly feverish, and his  
bones ached. His blanket had slipped off, and he was too  
fatigued to reach for it. Frodo, who had been on guard,  
had knelt beside him, thinking him to be asleep and had  
gently pulled his blanket over him. Through cracked eyes,  
Boromir had seen such a look of tenderness on the hobbit’s  
face that it had nearly brought tears to Boromir’s eyes.

And now he had betrayed his friend in the most shameful  
manner.

He put trembling hands over his face and wept. The darkness  
pressed close to his heart, blocking the red-gold patches  
of late afternoon sunlight that pierced through the trees.  
“Frodo…Frodo…forgive me…”

A soft hand fell on his shoulder. “Boromir.”

Boromir ripped his hands from his face and twisted around.  
He stared at Frodo in open shock, taking in the hobbit’s  
slight form, wrinkled clothing, and curls tangled with  
broken pieces of dried leaves. His eyes were no longer  
wide with hatred and terror.

“Frodo…you came…” Boromir held his palms outward. “I am  
sorry.”

“A madness took you.” Frodo’s voice was soft, forgiving. “I  
know.”

Still on his knees, Boromir wrapped his arms around Frodo’s  
waist and rested his chin on Frodo’s thin shoulder. “I  
would beg for forgiveness.”

Frodo kissed the top of Boromir’s head softly, and when  
Boromir lifted his head, he saw weary trust in the  
halfling’s wet eyes. His heart filled with a new and fierce  
adoration for this gentle creature that had forgiven him so  
easily.

***

Strokes of comfort; that is what Boromir told himself he  
was doing as he rubbed soothing circles over Frodo’s soft  
abdomen as the hobbit rested in his lap. Boromir had never  
understood how Frodo – all the hobbits in actuality -  
managed to smell so pleasant after weeks of travel. His  
curls were like dark wisps of silk, nearly fragrant in  
contrast to the stench of sweat that came from his own oily  
hair.

Boromir’s groin awakened, and he shifted Frodo’s weight on  
him. Strokes of comfort; that was all. Insects buzzed in  
sudden and jarring symphony, but other than that, the woods  
seemed magically still. A melodious hum filled his ears,  
and as Frodo’s bottom nudged his hardness, his breath  
caught. Had he given the hobbit yet one more reason to  
distrust him? Frodo turned, and Boromir braced himself for  
the possible disgust that he would see there. However,  
Frodo only smiled, and his lips—so full and moist—trembled.  
His eyes were deep pools to be explored. There was no hint  
of distrust or revulsion there, only curious longing.

Frodo twisted around fully so that they faced one another  
and he set his full weight against Boromir’s stiffness. He  
pulled Boromir’s face down and seized his lips with violent  
hunger. Boromir slid his fingers under Frodo’s clothing,  
grasping the soft skin, nearly pinching with need.  
Boromir’s groin had become so stiff that the abrasion of  
his leggings caused terrible discomfort, and still the  
dizzying hum in his ears made the world seem still and  
distant. Danger was far away, but Frodo’s mouth shocked him  
with its power. Frodo rubbed his chest against Boromir’s,  
swaying on his knees. Boromir fumbled with the little  
buttons on Frodo’s vest.

Once in Hollin, Boromir had caught a glimpse of delectable  
nipple when Frodo was changing his clothes. He had never  
been fully certain, but he had always thought Frodo had  
caught his glance and had held it with upturned lips for a  
burning moment.

“Buttons…” Boromir gasped. “Too small. Forgive me.” With  
a rip of fabric, he yanked open Frodo’s shirt and vest,  
revealing the mithril shirt.

Frodo groaned, clearly frustrated that yet another layer of  
his clothing had to be contended with, and he wriggled out  
of everything – torn vest and shirt, and mail shirt. The  
Ring he mercifully flipped behind his back, though now the  
sight of it made Boromir ill. Frodo’s chest now revealed  
pink nipples, pale soft skin. He pulled back, writhing  
over Boromir’s hardness. He clutched something in his hand,  
though Boromir could not see what it was.

“Take off yours,” he hissed, cheeks rosy. In seconds,  
Boromir’s tunic, shirt, cloak were discarded.

Boromir gently lay Frodo on his back in the leaf-strewn  
ground. He wriggled out of his leggings just enough to  
slightly ease the discomfort in his groin.

Frodo clutched at him, beautifully ready. His pale skin was  
a stark contrast to the dirty and brown earth in which he  
lay. Boromir’s thighs trembled as he straddled him.  
Frodo’s hands worked on what was in his hands, and Boromir  
suddenly knew what it was - a tiny vial of vanilla-scented  
oil. How it made him think of home, where the cook made  
vanilla biscuits because she knew how he and Faramir adored  
them!

“From whence did you find that?” Boromir asked.

“I have had it since Rivendell.”

“Who gave it to you?” Boromir’s smile faded. Frodo was not  
his…had never been. Boromir was certain he would not be  
after this, either. But the idea that any other had  
enjoyed him-

Frodo only smiled and handed the vial to Boromir.  
“Please.”

***

The world filled with gasps and pleasurable whimpers.  
Boromir was giddy with pale skin sullied with earth… blue  
eyes that rivaled the majesty of the clear sky…delicious  
tight heat. Now the humming no longer filled his ears but  
burst from his groin like the trumpets that welcomed him  
home to the White City.

He would never again equate the scent of vanilla with home.

  
END


End file.
